


When I Had One Name

by Arnirien



Category: Role-Playing Games, Scion (Tabletop RPG)
Genre: Gen, Hindu Mythology - Freeform, Mythology - Freeform, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5187827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnirien/pseuds/Arnirien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucia has her peaceful life in order - a quiet studio for painting, a cozy flat (not too close to her parents'), and a gallery or two requesting her pieces. But after her divine father's visit, things start to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Had One Name

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to D, for their continued support and help with my stories.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Scion Role-Playing Game is owned by White Wolf Publishing Company. I have rights to nothing. I just write (and play), with deep appreciation.

“No can do, Marcia.”

“Aw, come on! You're always working.” Lucia's flatmate tossed her blonde curls and pouted. It was Marcia's personal mission to keep her friend running in the highest social circles, but lately Lucia was having none of it.

“My collection needs to be done by Friday. I _have_ to paint tonight.” Lucia pushed her chair back from the table, carrying her teacup to the kitchen sink. Marcia followed her, undeterred.

“You could go paint now and come out with me later.”

Lucia laughed lightheartedly. “You don’t give up, do you?” Marcia laughed, too, but she knew it was a losing battle. “Besides, you know my brother’s in town.”

Marcia was still in her pajamas calling after her for outfit advice when Lucia left the flat and headed for the tube. Two blocks from her parents’ place, she met Oscar on the street. They embraced and both started talking at once.

“How’s my little sister?”

“How’s Paris?”

They fell into comfortable conversation until they arrived on the doorstep of their childhood home. Inside they repeated all their news. Oscar passed around photos of his two little boys and accepted small gifts to carry home to them. After dinner, Lucia and her mother teamed up to wash the dishes. 

Lucia’s mother carefully kept her eyes on the work, but casually asked, “Have you been seeing anyone lately?”  
  
“I see a lot of Marcia, but not much of anyone else.” Lucia knew where this train of thought was leading.

Her mother peered at her over her bifocals. “Any suitors?”

“No, mum.”  
  
“I hear Alexander’s fellowship is going well. He’s a surgeon now, you know.”  
  
“Good for him.”

“We could invite his family over for dinner next week. I could make the-”

“Alexander and I were just friends, mum. And anyway, the gallery opening is next week.”  
  
“Oh yes, of course.”  
  
The two women fell silent for a few moments, the chink of china the only sound.

“Lucia…” her mother began. “Oscar and Lydia say they’re done with just the two. It’s up to you to give me a granddaughter.”

“I know, mum.”

It was after eight o’clock by the time Lucia said her goodbyes.  Oscar and their father were pouring over maps together in the study, and absently waved her away, but her mother wrapped her arms around her and held her for a long moment. “See you soon, love,” she said.

Lucia was thoughtful on the tube back, her mind filled with painted shapes and incomplete works. Of the three pieces she was contributing to the gallery opening, only one was finished. It was going to be a late night.

As she emerged from the underground, a bitter wind nearly tore her scarf away. Fall was giving way to winter. Lucia rewound her scarf, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and marched into the wind. A block away from the studio, she stopped for a coffee. Armed with caffeine, she unlocked the door to the studio, climbed the two flights of stairs, and instantly relaxed. In this place, more so even than her flat, she felt entirely at home.

She looked at the one finished painting, the first in the series: a blue house shining in the bright light of a summer morning, looming large, an oak tree supporting a simple swing, and white fence separating the yard from its neighbor’s. The second painting was still in progress: the same house from a more sedate perspective, looking a bit more worn and real, the lighting moderate, the tree standing a bit taller, with autumn leaves, and the beginnings of a clothes line stretched across the yard and ivy covering the fence. The principle shapes were there, the details remained to be added.

Lucia moved to stand in front of the final canvas. The outline of the house was there, the skeletal shape of the oak tree, leaves gone for the winter, the lines of the fence. She couldn’t help but see what belonged in the painting - the ivy pervasive yet shrunken, the paint peeling from the walls of the house, the cracks in the pavement, the light on the porch illuminating a pair of rocking chairs, the moon peeking through the tree branches. She shrugged off her coat, letting it fall to the floor around her ankles. Her coffee sat unremembered on a shelf. Nothing existed anymore save her brush, the canvas, and the image they would slowly reveal together.

Hours passed, until finally Lucia looked up to see the clock. Half past three. She looked back at her painting, still unfinished, but something seemed different. The crescent moon was shimmering, and Lucia found herself transfixed by its pulsating light. The moon began to move in a slow, graceful arc, until it came to rest like a crown on the head of a tall figure standing under the oak tree. Lucia had not painted a person there, yet his presence came as no surprise. He simply was there, and the painting shifted to accommodate him. The man was slim, gaunt, and pale-skinned. His hair was divided into three long plaits. His bare chest was smeared with grey ash, and his forehead was marked with a third eye, closed. A serpent was draped over his shoulders, and a trident was in his right hand. His head was turned, gazing into the expanse beyond the edges of the painting. Lucia recognized him at once. Fear and awe worked in her. For a long moment she stared at him, and both of them remained motionless. Then at last Shiva turned, and his eyes connected with hers. Lucia trembled. His mouth opened, and in a bold yet sonorous voice he spoke to her.

“I can leave you in the dark no longer. Whether I would will it or no, your second birth is come.” His eyes bored into hers, but she did not look away.

Shiva looked far into the distance again. He sighed.

“You must know that you are my child, my own flesh and my consort’s. Your path will be rocky henceforth, and your hold on life tenuous.”

Lucia’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. Yet her father knew, and turned again to face her.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Never one to be shy or soft-spoken before, Lucia found herself struggling to form a sentence.   
  
“Your _what_?” she whispered.

Shiva smiled, a soft though grave expression. “My child - the first daughter Parvati and I have formed together in many a long year.”

Lucia wrestled with this new information. Images of her mum and dad flashed before her, of Oscar - were they not her family at all?  
  
Shiva’s eyes hardened, and he left her no time to come to terms with his pronouncement. “I hope you have enjoyed your time as a mere human. From now on you must be prepared to serve your true family. A great battle is nigh, and your participation is...expected.”

Lucia stood dumbfounded. She could find nothing to say.

Shiva gave her a long look. “Take care, my daughter. And be ready.”

Lucia blinked, and her father was gone. The moon had moved back to its original position, as a dim crescent peeking through the tree branches. 

Lucia picked up her paintbrush, and added brilliance to the curve of the moon. She kept going, adding minute details to the canvas, though the tableau seemed lacking now, without Shiva’s presence. It was several minutes later when she noticed that she was painting with her left hand, which had never held the brush before.


End file.
